


Light

by Beeblebrox-For-President (unfortunately7)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Original Character(s), Other, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfortunately7/pseuds/Beeblebrox-For-President
Summary: Please, please do not read this if you are extremely depressed/suicidal.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 109





	1. Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please do not read this if you are extremely depressed/suicidal.

There’s something intoxicating when you hurt yourself. When you watch the bruises spread, when you see the blood leeching out of your wounds. You feel as though a weight has been lifted from your chest. you can breath again.

But then it comes back. The weight of your sins. The smears on your face, the ones you can’t see but you know are there. The hatred. The pain.

And so you atone again. 

And again.

And again.

And it amazes you because you can hide it for so long. The others know you have issues, but a plaster smile and they’re all fooled. I’m doing good, you tell them. I’m getting better, you lie.

And you feel all the worse for it. Lying to them, disgusting. You don’t deserve them. One more sin to atone for.

And so you bring your fist down on yourself. You take a blade, the nearest you can find. As soon as you’re alone, you remedy your pains in the only way you can. The only thing that makes it better.

Another bruise. Another trickle of red. One less thing to feel bad about.

But it never lasts long enough. Soon, you’re back where you started, in pain, horrid, despicable. It’s never enough. There’s never enough bruises, never enough cuts.

And it begins again.

And again.

And again.

There’s an itch in the back of your skull, can you feel it? Something nagging. Something you’re forgetting. You’re slipping a little more every day. You know it. But you can’t figure out what is slipping away.

You plaster on a smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes. It doesn’t mask the circles beneath your eyes. It doesn’t disguise the droop of your shoulder. Doesn’t hide how tired your becoming.

So tired. You wish you could sleep every moment you’re awake. And when you do sleep, the guilt of wasting time washes over you in waves that drown you.

No matter how much rest you get, it’s never enough. You’re always tired. Always.

People start to notice. You’re too tired to see the concern. Too tired.

You keep plastering on your smile. It’s getting weaker by the day. Did you remember your medications? Did you remember to eat? Did you, did you, did you, did you?

You don’t remember. You can’t recall anything anymore. Only your sins. Only every single time you made a mistake. Every time you glanced in the mirror. Everything else is gone, replaced with static.

Static.

That static used to be someone. There was someone in there. Now there’s nothing.

Was it you? Who were you? Were you ever really there? You don’t think you were always this way, but you can’t remember. All you see is static.

Soon it gets hard to remember the basic things. What day is it? For that matter, what time of day? Who are you. Who, who, who, who?

And one day, it’s too much. There’s too much static. You’re too tired. The sheets are too warm. You’re so cold. You turn on your side and stare at the sun as it rises over the New York City skyline. Maybe this will be the last time. Maybe the meds you’ve forgotten for so long will help one final time.

You smile. The plaster falls away. The static clears. It’s finally over, you think. Finally.

Your eyes close.

You’re so tired.

Steve yawns as he shuffles into the communal kitchen. The mission had been a long one, and they only just got back last night. Well, not night technically. The ass-crack of dawn.

Bruce stands at the coffee maker, waiting for the dark brew to finish its journey into the coffee pot. His mug sits idly by, waiting right along with him. The moniker ‘World’d Best Green Guy’ stands out in proud black letters on its white surface. A gift from Tony last Christmas.

Clint is perched on the counter, a bowl of soggy cereal in hand. He takes a bite. Half of it drips down his chin. He lazily wipes it away with a paper towel.

There’s a sense of sluggishness in the whole Tower.

Thor emerges from his quarters. Unsurprisingly, he goes immediately to the pantry. A box of poptarts is removed, a victim quickly selected. Strawberry. There’s jam on his beard.

Clint hands him a paper towel. 

Bucky walks in, eyes as bright as the light gleaming off of his metal arm. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat, clinging to his skin. He’s been for a morning run, despite the later return. He’s had his fair share of struggles, but activity keeps the darkness at bay.

Loki is sitting at the table, a cup of tea in hand. A book rests in the other. He kept odd hours, so it would be no surprise if he had been up all night and would retire soon.

Natasha is nowhere to be seen. Presumably, she’s tucked into bed, snoring, red hair scattered over the pillow. Tony, too, is missing. It’s safe to assume he’s in a similar state.

It is quiet, peaceful. The morning light seeps in through the windows, illuminating the space in a warm glow. It’s at times like these where they feel like a real family. Except, someone is missing.

JARVIS is alerted to an alarming drop in one team member’s vital signs. There were no injuries when they had been examined after arrival. Yet, their heart-rate has plunged.

The AI alerts the others, and the doctors a few floors below. A flurry of activity interrupts the silence.

Half of a poptart lays uneaten on the counter. A bowl of cereal has landed on the floor. Milk forms a puddle. A cup of tea sits cooling on the table. The coffee maker keeps running, slowly coming closer and closer to overflowing.

Natasha is alert and awake as soon as the alert sounds. She out of her room in less than fifteen seconds. Tony nearly elbows Pepper in the face as he shoots out of bed.

You’re wrapped in a blanket, clutched tightly to someone’s chest. The elevator button is pressed over and over until the doors finally slide open.

The doctors are ready as soon as they arrive on the medical floor.

You’re laid on a gurney and rushed away from your friends. Your family.

Silence settles once more. It is no longer peaceful.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a dry taste in your mouth when you wake. Your mouth isn’t dry, but the taste is there.

Charcoal.

You grimace. Your eye cracks open. It’s difficult, as though they’d been shut a long time.

There’s a heart monitor hooked up beside the bed.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Failure. Failure. Failure.

The walls are crisp and white. So are the sheets. And the pillow. The gown you’re in is a pale blue. The material is scratchy, just like your throat.

“Damnit.”

Your voice is hoarser than you expected. You cough, then clear your throat.

Natasha is sitting in a chair near the bed. She jolts awake at the sound of your voice. Her face is shocked, worried.

She’s up in a second, dashing to the door. “Guys,” she shouts, “they’re awake!”

She sounds pleased.

They hadn’t been expecting you to wake up. The doctors said you had a 37% chance of survival considering the amount and potency of the pills you took.

Damn the 63%, you think.

You pull on a half-smirk as the rest of the team fills the room. There’s joy in their eyes, but the mood is somber.

“Well,” you remark, “The doctors finally got an opportunity to test their new medical center.”

You don’t sound like you. You sound hollow. The false bravado of happiness you always put on is gone, shredded. They shift uncomfortably.

They all wish they had noticed it sooner.

Acted sooner.

Been there to stop you.

Bruce frowns, stepping closer. “Y/N, don’t joke about this, please. Talk to us. We want to help.”

You lay back and stare at the ceiling. “I’m fine now. Got it out of my system.” It’s true, in a way. 

Bucky had been staring at the floor where he stood next to Steve. He snapped.

“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit,” he seethes, “You can’t just pull something like this and expect us not to worry.” His tone is angry, but there’s a deep sadness in his eyes.

Steve wraps his arm around his shoulders to calm him down.

He sighs. “What we’re trying to say, Y/N, is that we’re here for you. You don’t have to fight this alone.” America’s Golden Boy, looking rather tarnished.

You grit your teeth. You want to react with anger, bitterness, but you can’t. “I’m done fighting it. I can’t anymore.”

You’re weary. Worn out. Tired. It drips from your tone.

Natasha’s hand is one your before you can react. She says nothing for a moment, but stares you down with her captivating gaze.

The team gathers closer. Steve sits on the edge of the bed. Bucky follows suite.

Nothing is said. No words are exchanged.

They stay like that for a long time. Eventually the doctor pushes them out so they can check your vitals. You allow them to maneuver your body this way and that, limp as a corpse. Just like how you feel.

It’s night before anyone comes back. You suppose they wanted to give you your space. You appreciate it. 

Steve and Bucky walk in. Each of them is carrying a bag from your favorite restaurant. In one hand, Steve balances a cardboard tray with several takeout-cups.

Bucky pulls two chairs close to your bed. The bags are opened and a container of your favorite dish is unceremoniously plopped in your lap. A drink handed to you.

A weak smile crosses your lips. Steve smiles back.

“There’s the Y/N we know,” he murmurs softly. You look down at your lap. You pick up a utensil and start to eat. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were.

Bucky runs his flesh hand through your hair tenderly. “You don’t have to talk about it right now. Soon, but not now.” His tone is understanding, sympathetic.

Steve rests his hand on your leg while the three of you eat in silence. He finishes his food quickly and leans back in the chair.

“Things aren’t looking so good right now, huh?” he asks, sheepish in an endearing way.

You shake your head. “Nope.”

Bucky rests his hand beside Steve’s. Their fingers touch fondly. 

“But it will get better. Humor us, Doll. Let us try.” 

His eyes are full of hope and affection. Just like Steve’s.

Affection for each-other. Affection for you.

You’ll give it a chance. You’re tired, but you’ll give it a chance. Something in their eyes makes you feel a glimmer of light in the dark. It’s barely there, but still.

Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu thanks for reading! This was theraputic for me to write, and I hope that maybe reading it will be theraputic for someone else. Remember, I'm always here to talk if you need a shoulder to lean on.


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